


Be Careful Out There

by canumaybenot



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Dissociation, Drunk Kissing, F/M, I'm so sorry i'm so bad at tagging, Mentions of Suicide, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, cursing, drinking alcohol, stalker!arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 18:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21306419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canumaybenot/pseuds/canumaybenot
Summary: It was a bad day for him-- one of many. He didn’t want to focus on himself--if only for a few minutes. So he looked for another life to ponder. And he saw yours first.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Fleck/You
Kudos: 56





	Be Careful Out There

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to post a fic, but this is the first time I've had the guts to do it, so here goes nothing!  
Some warnings I'd like to put out there just to be on the safe side, this fic includes Reader being stalked, mentions of suicide (both on Arthur's part and Reader's), anxiety attacks, dissociation, Reader being drunk. 
> 
> I'm so sorry if it's painfully slow lmao.

You didn’t know it, but it all started with “Excuse me, sorry”. You hadn’t even paid attention to who you said it to-- just that the can of instant coffee was so within reach had it not been for the tall figure next to it. 

You said your pardon and reached around the figure. It hadn’t occurred to you that this figure felt electric shocks at your voice. Or that the closeness of your hands was pleasantly startling. Or that the fresh smell of your still-wet hair filled his senses. 

Nor did you know that he had spotted you across the street before you even walked into the convenience store. Before you stood next to him. Outside, he merely followed you out of morbid curiosity. Nothing else, honestly. Besides, he needed to stop in the store anyways. 

It was a bad day for him-- one of many. He didn’t want to focus on himself--if only for a few minutes. So he looked for another life to ponder. And he saw yours first. 

And you went on not noticing. Not for that night. Or the week. Or the week after that. He followed you on and off. Sometimes in the morning, rarely in the noon, but mostly at night. Enough to know that you lived about a block away from him. The building seemed just as shitty as his, only there was more effort to the design of the lobby. He followed long enough one morning to know you worked in a law firm. You were too seemingly poor to actually be an attorney, so must have been a paralegal-- or maybe some other kind of paper pusher. He knew your lunches were between twelve and one and that on Fridays you wore dark jeans instead of slacks. And on a rare hot and humid day in Gotham, you decided to forego your jacket and he knew then and there that there were curves you humbly kept hidden from the world to see. This knowledge was saved for later in the privacy of his night, with experimental thoughts and hushed groans. 

This was kept up for a few weeks. It helped him cope with the events that occurred like a bad trainwreck. Lost his job, killed three men, rejected by a potential father figure. The unintentional political movement he created. 

But most of all, changes were occurring inside of him. 

But you know what didn’t change? The fact you left your apartment at 8:20 AM Monday through Friday and went home at five o’clock. He saw you stop in front of a newspaper stand on your way home-- maybe a day or two after the subway incident. He stood across the street once again and he could see you look at the front page article. A menacing clown, all sharp teeth and bloodthirsty rage. 

What had you thought of the news? Were you one of the many who praised him? Was he just some “Killer Clown On the Loose” to you? He dared to walk just a little closer-- something he hadn’t brought himself to do since the convenience store. Hood up, shoulders slumped and timid. Unassuming. Invisible. You showed no expression-- a neutral face. He was put out by this. He wanted to know you admired him. That you thought him a hero (nevermind the fact he didn’t quite care nor fully grasp what this movement was-- he was being _noticed! Praised!_). Yet your face remained neutral. 

In the weeks he followed you, he rarely saw you with people. He thinks he counted exactly three times that you went to dinner with a friend after work instead of straight home. He didn’t dare follow on those nights. 

Once he even followed you on your lunch (after getting fired from Ha-Ha’s, of course). You were eating at a local deli with a colleague. You sat on the outside porch, and he took the small table behind yours with his back facing you. He didn’t have money for a meal but instead took out his joke journal and pretended to write--even ordered a coffee for appearances. 

His heart raced. This would be the second time he’d hear your voice since that night three weeks ago. He almost didn’t want to, too scared it might shatter the image of you he’d created in his imagination. You must not have been much of a talker. The woman accompanying you did most of the talking. Her voice was whiny and it grated on his nerves. He worried you’d be the same. 

“So what do you think about those murders?” Finally, the woman gave you a chance to speak. 

“I don’t know. I’ve bumped into people from WayneCorp before. They were all assholes. They might have just fucked with the wrong clown.”

“But why the clown get-up? I’d be freaked out if I saw that on the streets even just during the day.” 

“Who knows? Maybe Clown was going to a dress up party and got jumped. Maybe his actual job is being a clown. Maybe it really was because he was targeting them. Who knows.” 

So you _are_ neutral, he concluded. You spoke as if you were talking about the weather or speculating the plot of a movie. 

“There’s been more riots. I won’t let my youngest go out after eight now-- there’s been too many freaks in clown masks hanging around at night.” The woman sounded peeved. 

“Things have been tense lately in the city. I think people were just waiting for some kind of excuse to go apeshit. This was just their perfect chance.”

_Is it just me, or are things getting crazier out there?_

His words echoed back to him. 

The rest of your conversation consisted of work matters. You didn’t work criminal law, but civil. You were definitely a paper pusher, nowhere near appreciated enough. You genuinely laughed exactly twice and he felt himself have an out of body experience. Your laugh was beautiful. Compared to his high pitch, yours was throaty and natural. Even your chuckles were soft and charming. 

He didn’t pay attention to the specifics of the conversation. He listened to your voice-- kept note of changes in your tonal inflection, your verbal habits, your frequent use of the word “fuck” and any variation that came with it. 

He imagines what your voice would sound like out of breath or gasping. Pleading? Demanding? On the brink of orgasm? The possibilities were bookmarked for later that night. Most of all, he wanted to hear you say his name.

_Arthur._

Later that day, he went to Arkham Asylum. The sting of Thomas’ rejection and accusations clutched tightly at his heart. The sound of your voice remained replaying in his head like a mantra for comfort. 

He didn’t like what he found in the record. 

The night before he went on Live With Murray Franklin, he decided to let himself have one last chance to see you. He had had the courage to go on stage at Pogo’s and tomorrow he’d be killing himself on live television-- he could muster the nerve to pretend to be a random stranger and talk to you. He could. It would be his last chance. What did he have left to lose?

Between stealing the record at Arkham Asylum, killing his mother, and the day before his big plan, something snapped inside Arthur. A tragedy? No, he corrected. A comedy. _A fucking comedy._ This whole life of his was comical. Absurd. And comical. His night was full of wheezing laughter. He teetered on the lines of despair and hysteria. Utter compliance and resolution for what he was to do.

He’d show the world comedy. He’d show them good comedy and if they couldn’t accept it for what it was, then that was on the world. 

It was Wednesday evening. He stood in an alley across your law firm, glancing up to see if you’d come out yet. He checked his watch and it read 5:05. Where were you? You were never late getting out of work. You typically ran out of there like it was on fire when it came to the end of the day. Was something wrong? He hadn’t followed you this morning-- had you even gone in? Were you somewhere else right now? Had you noticed him? 

His heart raced. Beads of nervous sweat formed under his shirt and at his forehead. He looked down at his watch again. 5:12.

Something wasn’t right. This never happened. You must have noticed hi-- 

Oh. There you were. You finally walked out of the building. Your hands were shoved into your pockets and your steps were quick. Like you were trying to put as much distance between you and the building without running. Had something happened? 

He followed after you turned a corner, keeping his usual distance with a person or two between you. Your steps faltered, but then you picked up the pace again. What was going on in your head? 

By this point, you were five minutes into your usual walk home. But instead of crossing the street, you walked into a bar. Your stalker stopped after you walked inside. This was unusual. He’d never seen you drink. Were you meeting someone? Should he chance it? 

Yes, he should. Nothing left to lose.

It was his last chance to speak directly to you. 

He looked into the darkened store window he was standing in front of. His hair was curling wildly at the ends, no doubt from the wind and speed walking. He wore his usual cardigan and button up but before walking into the bar, he took off his brown jacket. Straightened his cardigan. Flattened down his hair just a bit. It was too poofy from his earlier shower. And walked in. 

You sat at the bar alone. There were two others, but they were at the end. You sat in the middle. The place was almost empty, and a smoky haze clouded around the dim lights. His walk to the bar felt like slow motion. Was he really doing this?  
He left a bar chair between you and sat down. Would taking out his joke book make him look more natural? Like he hadn’t followed you in here? Maybe. 

It took five minutes for a bartender to ask you what you wanted to drink. You knew you’d regret the caffeine later, but you still ordered a Red Bull and vodka. It did the job the quickest and you didn’t immediately hate the taste. The bartender asked the man a chair away from you and you heard a mumbled “Whatever’s cheap, thanks”. 

You sat your purse in your lap, not daring to set it anywhere else. You cursed yourself when you realized your cigarettes were indeed there, but there was no lighter. You left it at home again. God dammit. You slammed your pack of cigarettes on the bar and rubbed your face with your hands. Tension was building at the base of your skull. Tension aches. 

“Need a light?” 

You looked to your right at the man holding up a lighter. 

“If you don’t mind. That’d be great.” 

You watched as he awkwardly shuffled out of his chair and took two steps towards you. He was tall. Instantly his hair caught your attention; floppy and curly, if not just a bit unruly. _Definitely_ your type. His nose was a little awkward but his jaw was sharp. If only you could get him to look you in the eyes… 

He held out the lighter and ignited it. You inhaled the beginnings of your cigarette and looked up at him. He was so tall. It was a tough day. You were feeling reckless. Your eyes were finally meeting his and you blew out your first cloud of smoke.

_Fuck_, his eyes were the deepest green you’d ever encountered. A dark ring wrapped around the green and his thick eyebrows only made them more striking. He licked his lips-- was he nervous? You spoke when he didn’t. 

“Thank you.” 

He gave you a stilted nod and you saw his Adam's apple bob along his throat with a particularly hard swallow. Fuck, his hair framed his neck so well. It looked so long. He kept the buttons of his shirt buttoned all the way-- what a shame. 

His expression was different from all the other men you’d try to flirt with. They’d look triumphant. Cocky, even. This man looked… well. You didn’t quite know how to describe his look. He didn’t seem like an asshole, and honestly? That was a nice change. 

The man shuffled back to his chair. You took a large gulp of your drink and a deep drag before he spoke to you again. 

“Tough day?” 

You ‘mmm’ an affirmative into your drink. It was your second gulp and it was already half gone. You noted he hadn’t touched his cheap beer yet.

“Yeah, I’ve had a few bad ones myself. Yesterday in particular.” 

You nod slowly, still looking forward, and say, “I’m pretty sick and tired of my job. Most of ‘em are assholes. I don’t know why I stay.” 

You don’t notice that he’s looking at you from the corner of his eye. He’s never had a chance to explore your face like this. He takes note of the bags under your eyes and how your bottom lip seems constantly bitten. 

“Wanna hear a joke?” 

You’re almost done with your first drink. You want another. 

“Sure, why not.” 

“A man walks into a library and asks to borrow a book on how to commit suicide. The librarian says, ‘No, you won’t bring it back’.” 

You were in the middle of swallowing your drink when a surprised giggle escapes. You cough into your sleeve as more giggles follow. He watches triumphantly. He was the cause of that giggle. He felt intoxicated. He gives you a few seconds before he speaks again. 

“Who do you work for? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

Clearing your throat and ashing your cigarette you reply, “Oh, you know. Gotham’s finest assholes. Entitled brats in designer suits.” 

An image of Thomas in the theater bathroom appears in his mind. 

“I know the type. Why _don’t_ you leave?” 

“I wouldn’t have anywhere else to go. Gotham’s not exactly teeming with career choices.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

Silence passes and in that time, you get another drink. After you take the first sip, you finally ask the man what his name is. 

“Arthur. My name is Arthur.” 

You look at him now-- really look at him. He looks like an Arthur. You find that you like his voice. It’s patient and soothing. He speaks slowly, as if he’s making sure no one misses a word he says. He’s lit his own cigarette now, and it draws your attention to his hands. Large hands, defined fingers. You know you’re half tipsy when you watch his lips as they wrap around the filter. You look away quickly. The warmth of the alcohol makes your face flush. 

“Arthur. It’s nice to meet you.” 

His heart is pounding in his chest now. His head feels light at the sound of his name from your lips. He commits it to memory. Saves it for later tonight. He did it. He got to hear his name in your voice, for real. Perhaps… perhaps that was worth staying alive for. Was it? 

An hour passes by with you two smoking at the bar. In the end, he only had half of his beer. You had two more drinks. You spoke about many things. The awfulness of Gotham. Shitty jobs. Mutual desires for better things. He told you jokes, most of them morbid. You didn’t know if it was the drink that made you giggle every time, or if it was the way he changed his voice or the way his face became expressive with every punchline. You weren’t sure if you bit your lip because you couldn’t help staring at his hands and mouth when he’d smoke, or if because you needed some kind of physical sense to keep you grounded in the moment. You tended to drift off when you drank. 

It wasn’t very late when you decided you needed to go home. It was only maybe seven o’clock, but you wanted to be in the comfort of your home. And yet… Arthur was charming. In your moments of shared silence you’d stare at his profile. He would seem lost in thought but there was something dark in his expression. He almost looked like a man given up. Those are always dangerous, you thought to yourself.

You closed your tab and finished your last cigarette. You didn’t question it when he walked outside with you. You didn’t quite want him to leave. Perhaps… if you said you were too drunk, he’d walk you home. 

“I’m, ah, walking this way. Would you--would you like to walk with me?” 

He smiled boyishly at your question. 

“Sure. I’m this way too.” 

It was nice walking home with someone. It was nice sharing your bubble with another person, if only for the night. 

“You know what I wish for, Arthur?” 

“What’s that, (y/n)?” 

“I wish I didn’t have to go in tomorrow. Fuck those guys.” 

“Yeah, fuck ‘em.” 

“I wish I could be swept away and never have to worry about bills, or working this fucking job, or seeing them ever again!” Your words were slightly slurred and you waved your arms erratically to emphasize your feelings. You couldn’t quite believe you were walking home with an attractive stranger and complaining about your life to him as if you’d known one another for years. The absurdity of it was so strange that it was almost easy to ignore. He felt utterly charmed by you. 

Arthur knew all too well that your apartment building was coming up. He felt devastated that this would be it. This was the last time he’d be able to see you--up close or from a distance. You both came to a stop at the front of your building. 

“Thank you for talking with me, Arthur. I was having a bad day. You showed up at the right time.” 

His heart ached. 

“You too, (y/n). You really made my day. You have no idea.” 

Neither of you walked away. 

“Do you go to that bar a lot? Will I get to see you again?” You wanted this to continue. You’d feel bashful about your forwardness in the morning, but now? Now you just wanted hope. Hope for something to look forward to in future days. You couldn’t take the bleakness of your life any longer. You needed the universe to throw you a bone. 

“I’m...I’m not sure. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be in Gotham for.” It hurt Arthur’s chest to lie to you. 

You breathed through the disappointment. 

“Could I give you my number?” 

There’s a subtle hitch in his breath. Before either of you know it, he takes out his joke book and turns it to a blank page. With his pen, you scribble your digits and a small note. Before Arthur can get the chance to read your note, you step further into his space. This close, you can see bits of grey hair mixed with dark brown stubble. There’s a scar above his lip that you want to place gentle kisses on. His hair begged to be stroked. 

And so in your drunken daze, you did just that. Your hand slowly cupped his jawline and you stepped to your tippy toes. You placed a single, gentle kiss on his lips, just as you imagined. His face feels warm in your cold hand, and you enjoy the way his stubble scratches your palm. 

His body goes rigid and sobriety hits you like a tonne of bricks. This was a stranger! You didn’t know his limits! He probably thought you were harassing him! 

“Jesus, I’m-- I’m sorry. Look, you don’t have to call me. I didn’t mean to be weird. Thanks again, for keeping me company and walking me home.” Your step back felt robotic but at least your voice conveyed your sincerity. You could feel your mind float away from your body, trying to shield you from the humility you felt. You made a complete fool of yourself. Probably pushed too far. Spooked him. 

Before you can enter your building, he calls your name. You didn’t want to turn to face him. And yet, you did. You couldn’t deny yourself another look. Probably your last look.

“Yeah?” 

“Be careful out there, (y/n). Be safe.” His voice is cautionary. As if he knows something you don’t. 

And with that, he turns and begins his walk. Confusion sweeps over you. Your mind is detached from your body the whole way up to your room. Upon entering, you dash to your bathroom and vomit. 

When he rounds the corner, rain starts pouring and he allows himself to walk at a brisk pace. Nerves swell inside his body and his hands shake from the anxious energy. 

He is now the sole occupant of his apartment. He tries not to dwell on that as he strips down to his underwear and lights another cigarette. He spends another night gasping between painful laughing fits. The anxiety is too much and his confusion was at an all-time high. 

Did you kiss him because you were drunk? What were the odds that the person he followed for weeks would come to kiss him in the end? Had it been his imagination? Had any of that really happened? Was it worth staying for? But what about his plan? If he couldn’t carry out his plan, what was any of it worth? 

You couldn’t have been his imagination. The way you said his name… that whispered in his mind. He could hear it, even now through his laughing. But wait? His notebook. If you were real, he’d have your number. That would be proof. Proof that it was real. That you had kissed him. That you had _touched_him. _Saw him._

He almost trips on his feet to get to his notebook over on the dinner table. His hands are shaking uncontrollably and he crumples up some of the pages in his search. 

And there it is. Handwriting that isn’t quite as bad as his, but legible enough. Your number and a message that read, _“If you decide to stick around, give me a call. -(Y/N)”_

He doesn’t know what to do with himself, wailing into the pillow in the living room.  
\---------------------------------------

You’re both drained in the morning. 

Everything in Arthur’s body tells him to see you on your walk to work. He’d even be able to speak to you, if he wanted. But the confusion your presence now caused was too much. You made him second guess aspects of his plans and the second part of him--the newly emerged part-- wasn’t sure how to react. It was as if there were two sides of himself. Both still him but just… different. This part of him felt freed. Liberated. Like Arthur himself had given this new side permission to come out and play that night on the subway. And this new side didn’t want to be quelled anymore. And if Arthur was honest, he didn’t want to quell it either. 

And so he listened to this new side of him. He lost himself in music that seemed louder in his head and painted his locks green. This new side needed a face. He needed to put on a show. 

Killing Randall felt liberating, too. That really hit the sweet spot-- really got him into the mindset he wanted to be in before the show. His shoulders lost their tensity. His walk was a swagger.

_God, he felt good. Felt free._

He reaches for his joke book and takes one last look in the mirror. His makeup is flawless and his hair and suit transform his whole being. The gun in the inside of his suit pocket rests lightly. He isn’t Arthur right now. He’s _Joker._ And it feels perfect. He’s exactly where he needs to be. 

You, on the other hand, stay home from work. Your mental agony throughout the night reaches multiple climaxes sometime in the early hours of the morning. The room feels too hot, your mind is too loud, nothing helps. Several times in the next few hours finds you about to fall over the edge. Who knew something so small as embarrassing yourself in front of a stranger would send you spiraling so drastically. You knew it had been there for too long now, the numbness of your life. It stifled the hopelessness you felt, kept it under wraps and out of sight. But meeting Arthur had been so... _unexpected._ It sparked a hope inside your chest which you snatched and ran with for those few hours you spent with him. You wildly (and drunkenly) hoped it’d happen again. And it probably could have--if you hadn’t kissed him.

You felt disgusted with yourself. Who did you think you were, invading someone’s personal space like that? You despised it when others did it to you. What made you think it was okay coming from you? 

It wasn’t the fact that you embarrassed yourself in front of Arthur. It was the fact that you so fervently allowed yourself to get so lost in the experience of this man-- _and you had only spoken!_ It’s not that deep, you tried yelling to yourself. He was a beautiful stranger who you felt saw you when you didn’t even see yourself. But you didn’t think he saw it that way. He was probably just looking for someone to talk to, the way you never let yourself do. You should have taken that for what it was-- an enjoyable conversation with someone charming. Why’d you ruin it? 

And your inner monologue continued. 

You called in, telling your supervisor that you weren’t mentally doing well. She probably thought it was because of the events that transpired yesterday before you got off, but you didn’t have the energy to tell her otherwise. You didn’t care. You just couldn’t handle “fake it ‘til you make it” today. 

Your day was spent in and out of sleep. You dream of deep green eyes and cigarettes. Beautiful hands wrapping around your waist and stroking your hair. 

You finally fully wake up and make yourself something to eat in the early evening. After sleep, your panic seems dulled. Perhaps you just needed to cry out all your frustrations, just to get it out of your system. 

You wanted to go back to the bar. Just to see if Arthur was there. 

The rest of your evening goes by quietly until you hear commotion outside around nine o’clock. You knew there had been riots, but you didn’t know they’d reach all the way to your building. You had the vague awareness there was supposed to be a big protest going on, but this didn’t sound like a protest. This sounded like war. 

Your curiosity got the best of you and you wondered what the news channels had to say about this. 

All at once you’re hit with the chaos that has ensued on the Murray Franklin show. Joker. That’s what they called him, what he called himself. They played clips of his entrance onto the stage, his kiss with the doctor, his self assured smirk. A darker part of you raised an eyebrow at the swagger of this man-- the confidence was a little sexy. The way Murray’s brain matter splattered on the wall behind him was decidedly less sexy and you felt your breath hitch at the suddenness of the gun shot. It was disturbing. The raised voices that led up to the shot… 

A heavy unsettling pit landed at the bottom of your stomach at his words. He wasn’t wrong, but the sudden violence in the wake of his fury frightened you and you shut the television off. You ended up missing the reveal of the real name of the man who caused this chaos. 

You thought about going to the bar to see if Arthur was there. You wanted to see him, if at least to just apologize for your behavior the night before. But the commotion outside made you think twice. It sounded too intense out there, and it might be dangerous to wander. 

Would Arthur partake in the protests? You couldn’t quite see him donning a clown mask and smashing windows with everyone else. Hopefully he was safe inside his own home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, it means a lot. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
